


Like Music That Extinguishes the Far-Off Night

by Tam_Cranver



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: Christmas Party, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tam_Cranver/pseuds/Tam_Cranver
Summary: Christmas 1985--a quieter party than some of Jonathan's and Gethin's, but one to remember nonetheless.
Relationships: Gethin/Jonathan (Pride)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 107
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Like Music That Extinguishes the Far-Off Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katonahottinroof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katonahottinroof/gifts).



> The title comes from C. P. Cavafy's poem "Voices." Happy Yuletide!

The weather outside was, as the cliché went, frightful, but the kitchen was warm, Whitney Huston was playing on the radio, and Jonathan was preparing for a party, so Christmas found him in quite a merry mood.

Behind him, a warm, slender shadow sidled up, his presence palpable without even touching Jonathan. “What are you doing to that duck?” Gethin asked.

Jonathan grinned. “Well, as you know, I was thinking about _caneton_ _à l’orange_ for Christmas dinner, but then, Julia Child’s got a version with cherries, as well, and I thought, ‘well, why not both of them,’ for maximum festivity? And then I thought that if I was getting started with a rainbow duck, might as well go all the way with it.” He gestured toward the lemon slices, spinach, and blue and purple grapes he’d been preparing.

“ _Duck_ _à la Jonathan_ ,” Gethin murmured. “When did you get all this?”

“When you were on the phone with Hefina.” Jonathan sliced his lemon into thin rings, and then pondered whether he’d better add a little lemon to the sauce as well, for more flavor. “When are they supposed to arrive?”

Gethin checked his watch. “They’ll hit London at three or so, but then you know they’ll be dropping Cliff off in Islington at Poetry Daniel’s. Think I’ll meet them there, I’ve got a few errands to run that side of town.”

“Right-o.” Jonathan contemplated his bottles of port and Madeira. “What do you think, love, the tawny port, the ruby port, or the Madeira?”

“Well, if color is what you’re going for, I’d say the ruby. Listen, will you still be needing the curried carrots and peas with all this? It’ll be colorful, all right, but it might be a bit of an odd mix.”

Ah, Gethin, thought Jonathan fondly. His boyfriend had not been blessed with a curious palate or a sense of adventure in the kitchen, and he still had the metabolism of a twenty-year-old—left to his own devices, Gethin would happily subsist on fish and chips and sweets. But for Jonathan’s sake, he’d developed a repertoire of healthy recipes and a taste for vegetables. Sometimes Jonathan found it overbearing, but today it warmed his heart. “Bring on the peas and carrots!” he said. “God only knows what the under-25s will bring.”

“True enough,” said Gethin. Jonathan expected that he would dash off then, to grab the carrots or make a phone call or deal with some burning question of book inventory—Gethin had never been the sort to lounge about when there was something to be done, particularly when they were getting ready to host an event at the shop. But instead, he stood, pondering the duck as if he suspected it of some sort of trickery.

Jonathan grabbed the tawny port and poured himself and Gethin enough for sniffing purposes. “What’s up?” he asked, handing Gethin the glass.

“Oh, nothing,” said Gethin slowly, giving Jonathan a sheepish little grin. Jonathan didn’t dignify this with a response, only waited. Gethin looked down into his glass and took a sip, savoring it for a long moment before swallowing and looking back up at Jonathan. “Only, I hope Cliff’s date with Poetry Daniel goes all right. Hefina put him on the phone earlier, and I didn’t quite like how he sounded.”

“Oh?” Jonathan wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Cliff were worried. It was a hell of a thing, Jonathan would imagine, going on your first date as a sixty-five-year-old man. In a genuine epistolary romance of the sort not typically seen in the 20th century, Cliff had been carrying on a correspondence with Poetry Daniel—not to be confused with Leather Barkeep Daniel or Bicycling Daniel—ever since Pride. It had taken months and a good deal of persuasion to convince him to agree to meet again in person, though, and Jonathan wouldn’t be at all surprised if Cliff backed out, even now.

“No. He was very down on himself. A lot of, ‘oh, I’m too old for this,’ and ‘oh, what if it’s just too late for me?’”

Jonathan remembered feeling that way. But he had only been in his early twenties at the time, fresh out of university and feeling like a teenager, discovering for the first time a world he hadn’t mustered the courage to explore earlier. And then, he’d felt it again the first time he’d looked at Gethin as something other than a friend, thinking he had been on one path too long to stop and to settle down, no matter what the heart wanted.

“What did you say to him?” he asked Gethin.

Gethin breathed in a long sniff of his port, visibly thinking. He was not a man, thought Jonathan, who needed lofty rhetoric to express his feelings; Jonathan could see them all in his dark eyes, the worry, the frustration, the love. “I told him it’s all very well to think you’ll never do something until you do it. And there’s no such thing as too late as long as you’re alive.”

However long that might be, thought Jonathan, with a twist of bittersweet melancholy. But no, that wasn’t right—knowing something wouldn’t last forever didn’t make it less precious. Quite the opposite, really. “Sounds like you did all right for yourself, Mr. Roberts,” he said, then cleared his throat. No point in getting soppy right before a party. “Any words of wisdom for me?”

“Yeah,” said Gethin. He stepped close and kissed Jonathan—a warm, soft kiss that tasted like port. Pulling back, he smiled and said, “Have a taste of that sauce before you pour it over the duck, eh? I’m not running out and buying another one because you’ve made the one we have taste like a sherbet lemon.”

Jonathan swatted him across the chest. “Bah, humbug! Off with you, and let the chef work in peace!”

Gethin laughed at that. “Right, then, I’m off to do some errands. I’ll be back later to help get ready.”

Jonathan smiled and turned his attention back to the fruit for the duck. They’d thrown a party or two, or a thousand, in the shop by this point. It was all rather old hat. But he had to admit, after the year they’d had, he was looking forward to this Christmas party. Nothing for a wretched winter day but a party to rage, rage against the dying of the light, as it were.

And what better way to do that than with a rainbow duck? Jonathan peeled off a spiral of lemon zest for the sauce. It smelled like sunshine.

* * *

“And _what_ ,” Jonathan asked with no small amount of awe, “is _that_?”

Bromley flushed slightly, but his voice was brisk and confident as he said, “Chocolate raspberry custard in a chocolate crust with candied mint leaves. Got the idea from something the chef at work’s just put on our dessert menu.”

“Showing us all up, isn’t he?” said Steph, whose impatience didn’t cover up that she was impressed with it, too.

“Speak for yourself.” Mark made some sort of uninterpretable movement with his eyebrows and wrinkled nose at Mike, who bent his knees and hefted the soup pot they were holding a little higher. “I, for one, have been slaving over a hot stove on this stew.”

“That’s putting it a bit strong,” said Mike, who nonetheless helped Mark heft it into the small square foot of space left on the countertop. The pot smelled like the ocean—no prizes for guessing what was in the stew, thought Jonathan.

They’d all arrived in a straggling cluster half an hour after Gethin had left to fetch Hefina, Dai, and Margaret—Steph and Bromley first, then Jeff swanning in and somehow looking like a fashion plate in his winter coat, Reggie and Ray carrying with them a very traditional plum pudding, and Mike and Mark bringing up the rear with their giant fish stew. Jonathan wondered if they’d really carried it all the way from Mark’s place, then decided it was best not to ask.

Mike brushed off his hands. “And is Cliff on his date with Poetry Daniel, then?”

“Should be any time now,” answered Jonathan. “I believe they’re eating by one of those little theaters in Islington, and depending on how things go, he might stay the night. I know Poetry Daniel’s in a Christmas panto tomorrow, and who knows, maybe Cliff will want to see it.”

“Oh!” Jeff laid a fluttering hand on his chest. “A Christmas date, how romantic!”

“Sure, if you’ve got a date,” said Steph.

“Speaking of!” Mark fixed Bromley with a look. “Where’s this boyfriend of yours we’ve all heard so much about?”

Bromley shrugged, a little redder and a little less smiley. “Alex and his family are in Majorca for the holidays.”

“Which one is this, then?” asked Jonathan. From what he could tell, Bromley had had a _very_ active social life since moving in with Steph. Jonathan made it a general rule never to inquire too closely into the activities of his young friends, himself being an old married man and thus far too mature for the drama of being young and gay in London, but he did like to be _au courant_ with important developments.

Steph rolled her eyes. “Oh, _Alex._ Haven’t you heard? He’s an _artist._ ”

“Ooh,” said Jeff. “Very nice, Bromley.”

“He _is_ ,” said Bromley with an undercurrent of fierceness. “He’s lovely.”

“We _know_ , Joe. You’re in love, it’s wonderful—take a little pity on us poor singletons, will you?” Steph flicked Bromley on the shoulder.

Jeff sniffed. “Speak for yourself, Stephanie. Pity is the _last_ thing I need.” He smirked and examined his nails. “Just ask Bicycling Daniel.”

“Ugh,” said Reggie. “If you’re going to go on about your _conquests_ , I’m leaving. It’s _Christmas._ ”

Mark and Mike gave Reggie a dirty look, and Jeff raised an eyebrow with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Oh, darling, I have not _begun_ to tell you about my conquests.”

Right, now Jonathan remembered—he was too old for this. He clapped his hands. “All right, children, this is meant to be a party. Do you know what the situation calls for?” he asked. “Music. None of your schmaltz, mind, find us some real party music and let me finish putting the trimmings on this duck.”

The younger contingent of LGSM filtered out, leaving Bromley and Jonathan alone in the kitchen. “Well, Bromley?”

He shrugged. “Do you need any help with the duck?”

It was on the tip of Jonathan’s tongue to shoo him out, but the lad looked genuinely down, and Jonathan took pity on him. “Here, why don’t you keep an eye on Gethin’s curried carrots and peas and get some rice going?”

“Right.”

They worked in silence for a while, listening to the debates going on in the parlor as the rest of them switched the radio channels—“Good King Wenceslas” becoming “Like a Virgin” becoming “Dancing in the Street.” The roasting duck and the cooking sauce and curry filled the air in the kitchen with rich scents, and Jonathan felt himself relax. Bromley knew his way around a kitchen.

“Jonathan?”

He looked up from his sauce. “Yeah?”

Bromley had paused near the refrigerator, looking at the cards Jonathan and Gethin had stuck to them with magnets. There was a hand-drawn one from Siân’s kids, a few quite artsy ones from Noel and a few of Jonathan’s old acting friends, a charmingly tacky one from Carl in Onllwyn, an equally charming and minimalist one from the gay poetry group. And then, right below the colorful one from one of Mark’s old hook-ups whom Jonathan didn’t know but Gethin did, was the traditional and blandly warm card from Jonathan’s parents. It was this one, of course, that Bromley had opened and was looking at. “This is from your family?” he asked.

“Depends on how you define ‘family,’ I would say, but yes, it’s from my parents,” said Jonathan, mildly peeved.

“Do they know? About you, I mean?”

Jonathan stopped stirring his sauce and turned down the heat on the hob for a minute to turn and look at Bromley. “My dear Bromley, I’m not exactly _subtle_ about it, and Gethin and I have been living together for seven years. Yes, they bloody well know about me.”

“Right. Yeah, of course.” Bromley nodded. “Alex’s as well. They know about him, I mean, not you. They know about me, too, but I wasn’t about to invite myself to Majorca, was I?”

“I don’t know, were you?” Jonathan squinted at him. “What’s this all about?”

Bromley’s mouth twisted to the side. He had an uncanny ability, thought Jonathan, to look _profoundly_ unhappy without it appearing to be a deliberate display. Quite a gift. “I called my family, you know. To…to wish them a happy Christmas, and see if they wanted me to come by on Christmas Day.”

Oh. Jonathan thought he knew where this was going, now. “I take it it didn’t go well?”

“It wasn’t terrible,” said Bromley with a shrug. “It…my dad wished me a happy Christmas, and I talked with my sister for a bit. But she said I’d better not talk with my mum, because she was so upset about my not being there for the holidays.”

“Well, that’s a nice bit of illogic, given that you were offering to go there for the holidays.”

“Yeah, I—I did try to say that. But Tina said it would just upset things if I went over.” He looked down at his shoes. “I thought…I mean, it’s been months. And I’ve done all right for myself, you know, I got a job and everything, and I really want to tell my mum about it, and about Alex, and it’s _Christmas_ , and…sorry. I’m not making sense, I know.”

“You’re making perfectly good sense.” Jonathan wished he had a joint right about now, and hoped he didn’t say anything to fuck this kid up any further. He wanted to tell him _, Fuck them, who gives a toss what they think anyway,_ but he didn’t think that would help. Jonathan had never been close with his parents; his entire life he’d been one disappointment after another, from mouthing off to teachers in primary school to dropping out of Bar School to become an actor. He genuinely didn’t care what they thought. But it was different for Bromley, as it had been different for Gethin—when you were close with your parents, when it had always felt like you and them against the world, that absence left a wound.

Gethin’s was only now starting to heal—but Jonathan didn’t think telling Bromley to wait fifteen years would be all that helpful.

He sighed. “Look, Joe, you know it isn’t about you being gay, right?”

Bromley fixed him with a skeptical look. “I think it is, actually.”

Jonathan shook his head. “No, that’s the thing that set it off, but it’s all a part of the same thing, isn’t it—sometimes the people who’ve known you your whole life have a picture of you in their minds, and the moment you decide that that isn’t you, or isn’t who you want to be, they can’t accept it.” He gestured toward his parents’ Christmas card. “Take a look at that, will you?”

Baffled, Bromley took the card off the refrigerator and looked at it. Jonathan rolled his eyes and gestured toward him to open it.

“Notice anything about their holiday greetings?”

Bromley continued looking confused, began to say something, then stopped, frowning. “They only mention you. There’s nothing about Gethin.”

Jonathan gestured with a spoon. “Exactly. They know about him, of course. They’ve met him half a dozen times. But it doesn’t matter. My parents decided a long time ago that I’m the frivolous gay actor son. And that means I couldn’t possibly have any long-term commitments to anything or anyone, never mind what I actually _do_.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bromley, genuinely looking sympathetic, and Jonathan shook his head impatiently.

“You’re missing my point. The point is, they’ve got an image of me in their head, and it’s never changed. And the problem isn’t me, the problem is that they’ve never learned that people aren’t frozen in time like fossils. Being alive is growing and changing and doing things no one expected you’d do, but I think that’s difficult when your parents look at you and just see a little boy.”

“So what do you do, then?”

Jonathan shrugged. “You live your life. You don’t let their picture of you define you, and maybe they catch up with you and maybe they don’t, but either way you know you’ve done just what you’re meant to do. Look.” He leaned forward to meet Bromley’s eyes. “It’s like you said. You’ve got a job, and you like it. You’ve got a boyfriend, and you like him, too. And that makes you happy, right?

“Yeah, it does.” A smile darted across his face, quick and a little wistful.

“Well, there you go. That’s what parents ought to want for their children, but they don’t always, and so you find friends who’ll want it for you.”

“Right,” said Bromley solemnly. “And I have got those, haven’t I?”

“Of course you have.” This was all a bit sentimental, a bit maudlin, thought Jonathan, and he gestured toward the rice. “Oi, you, aren’t you meant to be watching the rice and carrots?”

Bromley laughed and then pulled an unconvincing indignant face. “I’m not going to burn _rice_ , Jonathan!” The indignant face cracked, and out of the corner of his eye, Jonathan could see him smiling to himself as he stirred the vegetables and then the rice.

Jonathan supposed that he hadn’t fucked up _too_ badly, then.

* * *

“Oi, where is everyone?”

There was a rumbling like thunder of half a dozen pairs of feet tramping down the stairs to the bookshop; Jonathan, being more mature and also rather tired from being on his feet in the kitchen for so long, took the steps at a more leisurely pace.

In the entryway of the shop, Gethin and Margaret were stamping snow from their shoes and shaking it from their coats while Dai and Hefina weathered hugs from the eager young party of LGSM members, who had seemingly forgotten their quarrel over whether Wham! made for appropriate Christmas music.

“Well, there he is,” said Hefina as soon as Jonathan made it downstairs, and in the blink of an eye, he was being embraced by one and a half meters of voluble Welshwoman. He hugged her back, welcoming her solid warmth. If there was anyone who could make a party happen by sheer force of personality—well, it was Jonathan, but if there was anyone _else_ , it was Hefina Williams.

“And how are you, my love?” she asked as they pulled away from each other.

“Positively fabulous,” said Jonathan, feeling it. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas to you as well,” said Hefina warmly.

Jonathan looked to Gethin, who was now taking coats from their guests and carrying them over to the hooks behind the desk. “Did Cliff make it to his date all right?”

“‘All right’ might be taking it a bit far,” said Margaret. “You know how nervous he gets. But he and Daniel did meet up, and we walked by the restaurant they’re going to—it’s lovely!”

“It’s over by the Almeida,” Gethin filled in. “You know the place where Neil from Gay Icebreakers used to work?”

“Right, yeah. What’s become of him these days?”

“If it’s Neil Moskowitz you mean,” put in Mark, “he’s been helping me organize the Red Wedge tour. Dai, you’d love it”—here he turned to Dai—“it’s musicians, mostly, the point of it is to introduce Labour politics to young people. It’s going to be _big_.”

“Oi,” said Steph sharply, “no politics. We’re taking a break and pretending the world isn’t complete shit for a day.”

Dai shot Margaret a sheepish look and said to Steph, “Right, good idea.” To Mark, he said, “Let’s talk later. I’ll be in London again after the New Year for a meeting.” To Jonathan, he said, “Thanks for hosting us. Anywhere I can put these?” He hefted a case of what Jonathan presumed was beer from someplace called “Brains Brewery.”

“Ah,” said Jonathan. “I see you come bearing gifts!”

Dai grinned. “I know you city folk like your beers overpriced,” he said, “but seeing as how we’ve put you out enough for the holidays, we thought we would bring libations to the party.” He gestured with his head toward Margaret, who was carrying another case from the brewery.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Gethin, “you haven’t put us out at all. Skull Attack, is it?” Though this struck Jonathan as a rather odd sentence, there was a brightness to Gethin’s smile that immediately endeared Dai and Margaret to Jonathan even more than they already had been. It seemed to him that every little bit of Wales that their friends could bring to London was more of a gift than any of them knew.

Or perhaps they did know—they’d brought the beer, after all.

“Three dozen of the SA,” Margaret said with a nod. “And we got some bottles of dark and bitter as well.”

Bromley stepped in to take her case, while Reggie and Ray grabbed her suitcase. “We’ll take these upstairs,” Bromley said. “The food’s ready to go—we’ve got quite a variety.”

The party moved en masse toward the stairs. As the chattering crowd started to vanish into the flat, Jonathan turned to Hefina. “Was the trip all right?”

“A bit snowy near the end,” said Hefina matter-of-factly, “but very doable.”

“Glad you could make it,” Gethin said. “We figured we and any of the London crowd who want to stay over would take the back room in the shop. You and Margaret and Dai can decide who wants the sofa and who wants the bedroom upstairs.”

Hefina made a chiding noise. “Putting you out of your bed on Christmas, you’ll make me ashamed of myself.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Jonathan exclaimed. “It’s the least we could do, with you making the trek out here in such frightful weather. You’re sure Rhodri and your kids don’t mind us stealing you away for the holiday?”

She shook her head. “Don’t you worry about us, Jonathan Blake. Our oldest, Megan, is coming from Newport with her husband and little ones on the 28th, and we’ll ring in the New Year together. And our Huw and Trevor are on holiday with their wives in France, so you can be sure that they aren’t missing a thing!”

“Well, it means a lot to us, getting to see you,” said Gethin. “And I’m sure Cliff appreciates it, as well.”

“Oh, Cliff,” said Hefina with a dismissive wave of her hand. “That Daniel knows what he’s doing, eh? He’ll have Cliff well in hand.” She fixed Gethin with a sharp look. “And how about you, my lad? Where’s your mother this Christmas?”

Gethin shrugged, and Jonathan winced. Gethin insisted that it was fine, had been insisting it was fine for the last month, but Jonathan couldn’t help but wish that Hefina hadn’t asked. “She can’t miss church,” Gethin said. “She helps out with Christmas services every year, and besides, I think all this…”--he gestured around the shop, toward the noise upstairs--“….might have been a bit much for her.”

“If she wants to see ‘a bit much,’ she ought to have come to the Pits and Perverts concert,” said Hefina tartly. "You having a Christmas dinner with your friends isn't 'too much' for anyone with a bit of sense."

“Hefina,” said Gethin. His voice was quiet, but there was a kind of gentle firmness in it that Jonathan knew quite well. “It’s fine. Honestly. We’re going to talk tomorrow. She and I are—we’re fine.”

Hefina didn’t look quite convinced of this, but she said, “If you say so. But it’s absolutely beyond me, you know, the way some people treat their own families.”

Jonathan leaned a bit closer. This didn’t sound like it was about Gethin and his mother. “Oh?”

“Look, you didn’t hear this from me, all right?” Now Gethin leaned in closer, too, though Hefina didn’t exactly speak quietly. “But I’m not so unhappy to be leaving town for the holidays. I can’t tell you what it was like to go to church on Christmas Eve and have to watch Maureen bloody Barry flit about like the archangel Gabriel. Head of the women’s fellowship, she is, and every year it’s like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Cliff would normally spend the holiday with her and his nephews, but ever since he came out of the closet, she’s been bloody unbearable. That’s why he’s spending Christmas in London, you know. And what she does when her Johnny comes out, as I’m half expecting he’ll do before too long, I’m sure I don’t want to know. I’m as big a believer in peace on earth and goodwill toward man as the next woman, but it’s _shameful_ for her to treat her own brother-in-law like dirt, when he’s been nothing but good to her, and then spew religion out of the other side of her mouth.”

Religious hypocrisy—a tune Jonathan and Gethin knew well. “Let her be a Scrooge,” said Jonathan. “You can’t change that sort’s mind. And you’re doing a good thing, being a friend to Cliff—you know, ‘peace on earth and goodwill toward man,’ and all that. I think you’ll both have more fun here, anyway.”

Hefina laughed. “Oh, you’re right about that, that’s for sure!” She reached out to pat Jonathan’s cheek. “You’re a good lad. And speaking of fun, we’re missing the party down there! I’ve brought roast potatoes for the dinner, but they need to warm up in your oven. I hope you haven’t anything baking in there right now?” Whether they did or not, she was already barreling her way upstairs, doubtless making a beeline for the kitchen.

Jonathan glanced at Gethin and raised his eyebrows. Gethin raised his eyebrows back and smiled. “I’ll bet she does a good Christmas dinner,” he said.

“I don’t think the dinner would dare _not_ be good,” said Jonathan. “Shall we go and get a couple of those beers Dai and Margaret brought?”

Gethin glanced out the window. Snow was beginning to fall again in the streets, and the streetlight’s reflection made even the dingy, dimming sunlight of a late December afternoon in London seem soft and magical. “Welsh beer, potatoes, and _Duck_ _à la Jonathan_. It sounds like a good Christmas dinner to me.”

* * *

All things considered, Jonathan thought, the meal was a rousing success.

Nothing went together, of course. He was grateful Hefina had made the roast potatoes, as they served as a bit of a palate cleanser between the duck, the fish stew, and the vegan “beef” pasties whose recipe Steph had gotten, of course, from Lesbians Against Pit closures.

(“What’s the ‘beef’?” Jeff had asked.

“Beans.”

“Why not call them ‘bean pasties’ then?”

“Because they’re meant to taste like beef.”

“They don’t.”

“Beef or not, they taste good, Steph,” Bromley had said, ever the peacemaker, before grabbing another helping of them.)

But of course the menu was beside the point—the point was the company, and that was excellent. Through one means or another, they’d kept Mark, Mike, and Dai from talking politics too much. Hefina brought news about Siân’s children, Gary’s new girlfriend, and Gail’s midlife escape from her husband; Steph and Bromley had a thousand stories about each other’s misadventures that they’d picked up from being flatmates; Margaret wanted to know whether anyone else had seen _A Room with A View,_ which was by far her favorite film of the year, and so of course Jonathan had to fill her in about the meager gossip he’d learned through the grapevine about Merchant and Ivory’s personal relationship, with Gethin throwing in a bit or two about E. M. Forster’s works, which Gay’s the Word sold.

Not to be outdone by any of this, Ray tapped on his glass. “Sorry to interrupt, but Reggie and me wanted to say something.”

Reggie and Ray were not typically the ones making announcements at any sort of event, and so sheer surprise was enough to get everyone’s attention. Unsurprisingly, this made Reggie a bit shy. “You didn’t have to stop eating or anything,” he said. “Only, Ray and I have to leave soon, we’re having another dinner at my parents’, but before we left, we wanted to say…Ray and I are moving in together.”

Jonathan had vaguely thought that Reggie and Ray already lived together—they had long been slotted into the ‘utterly married’ category in his mind—but this was obviously a rather serious development for them, and so he whooped out a cheer, followed half a second later by the rest of the table. The whole apartment rang with ‘congratulations!’ and ‘well done!’

Ray turned pink—he had the sort of complexion where it really showed—but bravely mustered a smile and a calm, “Thanks, everyone. We’re moving in January, and we’ll be hosting a housewarming once everything’s moved in.”

“Where are you going to?” asked Mike.

“Soho,” Reggie put in. “Now that Ray’s got promoted and we’re only paying for one flat, we can get a really nice place.”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice,” said Steph wistfully, sharing a glance with Bromley.

Dai nodded. “Congratulations on the promotion. You’re, what, manager now?”

“Assistant manager,” said Ray. “But the manager only comes in a few times a week, so I’m really doing more of the day-to-day business at the shop.” He sounded quite pleased about it, certainly more pleased than Jonathan would have been about essentially managing a Tesco. Jonathan had learned long ago that customer service was not his forte.

“How’s that, then?” asked Mark. There was a note of challenge in it, but then, Mark had probably come out of the womb with an aversion to the word ‘management,’ waving a little hammer and sickle flag in his baby fist.

Ray shrugged. “It’s all right. Doing more of the finances and work rosters, and that’s loads more interesting than just inventory and manning the till.”

“I’d say so,” said Margaret. “Good for you.”

“Thanks.” Ray looked to Reggie and smiled. “It’s good to be a little settled. We’ll see how long the job lasts, but it’s quite all right for now.”

Bromley frowned. “Why wouldn’t it last?”

“Oh, you know how it is,” said Reggie. “‘Gay and political’ isn’t always what people are looking for in grocery managers, and some of his coworkers….”

“I get along all right with them,” Ray said. “Only some of the lads are a bit, well….”

“Laddish?” Jonathan suggested.

“Yeah. And it’s not like I’m gonna lie about it, ‘specially not with me and Reggie living together. And with us getting involved in AIDS activism and all, and of course LGSM….” He shrugged pragmatically. “Won’t say I haven’t gotten into it with a few of them. But no sense borrowing trouble, eh? So far so good. I think 1986 is gonna be our year.”

Jonathan didn’t always see eye-to-eye with Reggie and Ray. But at the end of the day, he knew the fight they were fighting, even if it didn’t look the same as his. The fight to survive with your self intact and to be with the one you loved was always one worth having. So he said, “Well said. Now _that’s_ some news worth celebrating—let’s dig out the _good_ wine.”

* * *

After Reggie and Ray took off, Mike and Mark flipped the radio back on, claiming that the party needed livening up. Jonathan, who never needed to be asked twice to get a party started, fiddled with the radio until he found his old friend Nick’s show. Nick, he thought, had always had a gift as a DJ for putting together a show appropriate to the occasion, and that gift hadn’t failed him tonight: not a choral carol to be heard, only wonderful, life-affirming pop you could dance to.

Not that there was much room in the flat for actual dancing, mind. That didn’t stop Mark, Bromley, and Steph from a bit of the flailing in place that seemed to serve as club dancing these days, and of course Jonathan had to take Hefina for a spin around the floor, but mostly the music served to lift everyone’s spirits. That, and the alcohol, of course.

In the past on occasion, a tipsy Gethin had been a Gethin inclined toward melancholy. This year, though, tipsy Gethin decided to sing along to Huey Lewis and the News.

“Oh, I love this song,” Margaret said before joining in, and so then of course Jonathan had to sing, too, and they finished “The Power of Love” together.

Everyone clapped when they were done, and Hefina fixed Jonathan with a mock-stern look. “You never told me you could sing!”

“Musical theater background,” Jonathan offered. Gethin, who was squeezed in next to him in the loveseat, smiled and said, “Church choir growing up.”

“Did you see the movie?” asked Margaret. “ _Back to the Future_? Dai and I saw it last Saturday.”

Jonathan liked Michael J. Fox, but didn’t much like teen comedies or the fifties, so what he’d heard of the film hadn’t appealed. “No, how was it?”

From the corner, where he had dragged one of the kitchen chairs, Dai said, “It was all right. A bit silly, I’d say, but a good time.”

“A good movie for a date,” Margaret agreed.

“Speaking of dates,” Mike wondered, “I wonder how Cliff’s date is going.” His voice was louder than usual; Jonathan attributed it to the Welsh beer.

Dai frowned. “I do hope he’s doing all right.”

“He’ll be _fine_ ,” said Hefina, who also tended to boom when drunk. “He made it down here, didn’t he?”

Feeling the need to speak up in Cliff’s defense, Jonathan said, “From what I hear, this Christmas date was at least as much his idea as Daniel’s, and as we all know, Cliff has a keen sense of the romantic. I say he’s sweeping Daniel off his feet.” It was, he reflected, possibly even true. Poetry Daniel was a bookish sort, a regular at Gay’s the Word as long as Jonathan had known the place, and quite the sort of man to be won over by a poetry recital. Hence the name.

“I wish someone would sweep me off _my_ feet,” said Steph, who was crammed in on the sofa with Hefina, Margaret, and Bromley. Jeff, Mike, and Mark groaned; Joe pulled the sofa pillow from under his elbow and buffeted Steph lightly with it. Adding insult to injury, thought Jonathan blearily, as Bromley was quite happy with _Alex_ these days.

Hefina narrowed her eyes. “None of that, now! What’s the matter, love?”

“It’s _ridiculous_ ,” Joe cut in. “She keeps going out with these girls and then hiding from them after one or two dates! If she _wants_ a girlfriend, she’s got her bloody pick of them!”

“What, none of them good enough for you?” Jeff sniffed.

“No, it’s not that.” Steph stared down into her mug of mulled wine, and Jonathan felt a sudden pang of sympathy for her. It had been a long time, but he remembered what it was to be young and lonely. “It’s only…a girl wants a bit of romance, yeah? I mean, I’m a loud dyke, not posh, and not ashamed of it, but I don’t want girls _assuming_ things.”

Mark rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “Well, of course they _assume_ things about you, you run and hide after the first date!”

“I don’t _hide_ ,” she retorted. “I’m not expecting love at first sight, but I’m expecting a little bit more than sex.”

“You’re a bit of a romantic, I think,” Dai said, and Steph turned her head toward him in surprise. Jonathan didn’t blame her. While Dai was clearly possessed of a quantity of calm beyond the common measure, a quality that had served him well when fate and Mark Ashton had dropped him in the middle of London’s gay scene, he’d tended to steer clear of personal drama and stick to politics as long as Jonathan had known him. Perhaps just a bit too straight to get involved, Jonathan had thought.

Or perhaps not. “Not a thing wrong with that,” Dai continued. “It’s only they can’t read your mind. If you’re looking for something, I think you’ve got to ask them.”

“Well, how did _you_ do it?” She looked from Dai to Margaret and back again. “Go on. How’d you get together? I’ve heard more about this one”—she elbowed Bromley—“and his drama more than any woman should ever have to put up with. I’d like a _nice_ story now.” Joe grinned, unrepentant; despite her glare, Steph removed her elbow from his side and leaned against him. They were a bit like kittens, Jonathan thought rather absurdly. Or some other cute and fuzzy animals that liked to nip at each other without ever meaning harm.

Dai’s eyes widened. “Oh, I don’t know how helpful it would be. I don’t imagine you’ll be taking girls down the Welfare.”

Margaret outright laughed. “You’re not going to tell her about your guitar?”

Everyone perked up at this. “Your _guitar_?” asked Jeff.

“It wasn’t much,” Dai said, shooting Margaret a rueful glance.

“He used to write me songs,” said Margaret. “I’d got a job working at a hotel in Neath, and when my shift was over he’d bring me fish and chips and play me his songs.”

Jeff put a hand to his chest. “ _Dai_ ,” he exclaimed. “That’s positively _dreamy_.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Dai. “These weren’t what I would call good songs. I was _not_ in choir growing up. But it was a bit of a love at first sight situation.”

Jonathan was genuinely impressed. “Well done, Dai.”

Margaret and Dai looked at each other with a warm gaze, weighty with history. Gethin shifted next to Jonathan, leaning more heavily into him. Understanding what he meant, Jonathan moved to hold his hand. The position wasn’t quite comfortable; Jonathan’s back ached, and he adjusted himself so he could rest a bit more against the seat back. Getting old was a bitch—but of course, as the saying went, it beat the alternative.

Steph sighed. “Fat chance someone’s gonna serenade me. And I don’t know how to play the guitar.”

“You might just have to settle for calling a girl back every now and then,” said Gethin. “Or I suppose you could learn to play the guitar.”

“What about you two, then?” asked Hefina. “Love at first sight, was it?”

Jonathan had to laugh at that. “Hardly,” he said. “Oh, I don’t know. We’d known each other for ages. Ran in the same circles, you know. Gethin was absolutely indispensable to about half a dozen gay liberation groups at the time.” He’d been a beautiful young man, Gethin, thought Jonathan; not showy, or flamboyant, but steady, the type who would show up at a meeting, find out what needed to be done, and do it. Not that Jonathan had had the patience for ‘steady’ when they had met. But Gethin was beautiful now, too.

“’Indispensable,’ he says,” said Gethin. “That’s a nice way of saying I cleaned up after the meetings.”

Jeff groaned. “This isn’t going to be another story about Gay Lib, is it?”

“No, I want to hear it,” said Joe. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, looking at Jonathan and Gethin with grave curiosity. “Go on, then. Tell us.”

Jonathan had always loved a nice monologue. “Well! I was doing quite a lot of work with Gay Sweatshop at the time, and we were having all manner of programming meetings—what playwrights to work with, what was the theme of the season, wrestling with the Arts Council for funding, et cetera, et cetera. I _had_ been doing a bit more traditional stuff—Shakespeare, Wilde, Somerset Maugham, you know—but this was throwing me right back into it, the consciousness-raising, fighting the good fight, what have you. And of course then I started running into Gethin. Now, he _claims_ to have fancied me back in ’76, but _I_ certainly had no proof of it. Not _exactly_ the type to wear his heart on his sleeve back then.”

“You don’t suppose I was going to all those experimental shows of yours out of dedication to the cause, do you?” asked Gethin dryly.

“ _Now_ I don’t,” said Jonathan. Oh, whom had he been with at the time? What had he seen when he looked at Gethin in those days? One’s past self sometimes felt like a stranger. “But at the time? Bookish sort, invested in politics? Seemed plausible enough.”

“So what changed?” asked Mike.

“You could say that I did.” Gethin shot Jonathan a look. “Decided to be a little brave and ask him to go out.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history.” Of course, that hadn’t been the end of the story. Jonathan hadn’t been ready at the time for the compromises it took to build a life with someone; Gethin hadn’t yet had it in him to fight for what he wanted when the cause was a bit more personal than political. They’d had to grow; they’d had to learn to grow together.

“What kind of a story is that?” asked Mark in disgust.

“The kind, Mr. Ashton,” said Jonathan archly, “with a happy ending.”

“That’s lovely,” said Steph with a sigh. “I dunno. Maybe I’d be best off doing the lesbian activist groups more, run into more women that way. But you know there’s only so many hours in the day, and I’ve already been helping with Mark’s Red Wedge business and the anti-apartheid protests.”

“Well, you’ve got friends in Lesbians Against Pit Closures, haven’t you?” asked Jonathan. “Any nice girls there?”

Steph made an ambivalent gesture with her hand. “Meh. We get on all right, but you know Stella and Zoe and me weren’t talking for a bit there, and besides I’ve got two ex-girlfriends who’re members.”

“Awkward,” said Jeff, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, look.” Gethin felt around for something on the coffee table. “Jonathan, have we got a pen that works somewhere?”

Jonathan extracted himself from the loveseat and dug a pen out of the kitchen drawer, along with a notepad. He wove his way between chairs to present them to Gethin with a flourish. “Your wish is my command.”

“Right, thanks,” said Gethin, distracted. He scribbled something on the pad, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to Steph. “Silver Moon Bookshop, over on Charing Cross,” he said to her. “It’s a feminist store, not strictly lesbian, but we’re doing a lit festival together next spring, assuming we’re both still open, and Sue and Jane are good eggs. You might see if they’ve got any events or discussion groups on that strike your fancy. Could be a good place to meet women. Make a few friends, if nothing else.”

Steph stared at the piece of paper as if he had handed her a thousand-pound cheque. “Gethin, thanks,” she said sincerely, and folded the paper and put it into her pocket.

Gethin favored her with one of his crooked smiles—he had an assortment of them, and Jonathan loved each of them more than the last. “Happy Christmas,” he said.

“Oh,” said Mark suddenly, “now _this_ is what I call a Christmas song.”

Jonathan dragged his attention from Steph and Gethin to listen—it was David Bowie and Queen, “Under Pressure.”

“Don’t think I know this one,” said Hefina. “I like that David Bowie, though. Very creative, very artistic.”

Mike smiled at her. “You’re in for a treat, then, Hefina.” To Margaret, he said, “Do you know it? Good song for a singalong, that.”

As it turned out, neither Bromley nor Steph nor Mike nor Mark could really sing, but they made up for their lack of tunefulness with enthusiasm and air guitar skills, and Margaret didn’t even need to know the lyrics to make them all sound better.

 _Love dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves_ , indeed.

_This is our last dance._

But it wouldn’t be their last dance, Jonathan thought. No, this wouldn’t be the last dance for any of them. Fingers crossed, Ray had had the right of it—1986 would be their year.

* * *

Jonathan liked charades as much as the next man, really he did, but between Hefina and Mark, who were intent on leading their teams to victory and took it deadly serious, he could only stand about half an hour of it before he had to escape to the kitchen for a bit of a spliff and another helping of Bromley’s chocolate custard.

“D’you mind if I join you?” Dai hovered in the entryway.

Jonathan gestured him in with the joint. “Not at all. The charades get to be too much for you, too?”

“Well, I’ll admit, I was beginning to feel I was letting Mark and Jeff down. Those two are quite good at it.”

“I think it only seems that way because they’re so bloody competitive at it.” Jonathan shook his head. “Does it ever seem odd to you, that young people keep getting younger while we never get any older?”

“You noticed that too, did you?” Dai grinned, but he looked tired to Jonathan’s eyes. Lord knew it had been as long a year for him as it had for Jonathan.

He held out the spliff. “Want a hit?”

Dai peered curiously at the joint before taking it carefully between two fingers and taking a cautious drag from it. He looked for a moment as if he wanted very badly to cough, but he swallowed it before handing the joint back to Jonathan. “So that’s pot, is it?”

“That, Dai, is the _good_ pot.”

“Hmm.” Dai nodded thoughtfully, then peered sidelong at Jonathan. “How are you feeling? We heard you had a touch of pneumonia this past autumn.”

It just figured, didn’t it, that Siân and probably also Gethin had recruited the miners to worry about Jonathan’s health as much as they did. He waved Dai’s question aside dismissively. “Barely worthy of the name. They sent me out of hospital after a day with a bottle of antibiotics, and that was the end of it.”

“All right,” said Dai, sounding unconvinced. “You want to take that seriously, though. It isn’t the same thing, I know, but I’ve known more than a few men died of the black lung, and that’s no joke, worse if you’re fighting off another sickness at the same time.”

Didn’t Jonathan know it. Didn’t he know with terrifying clarity how serious any and every infection could be. But he was past despair. It didn’t do anyone any good, least of all him and Gethin. “I tell you what, Dai,” he said, keeping his tone light, “No need to worry. I’ve made up my mind—I’ve got to outlive both Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan, because there is no way in _hell_ that I’m missing those parties.”

Dai laughed at that. As if drawn by the noise, Margaret and Gethin pulled away from the cluster of charade players in the sitting room and drifted over to the kitchen. “Looks as if you’re having fun in here,” Margaret commented.

“Enjoying a bit of respite from the madness,” said Jonathan. “Pull up a bit of counter space.” He gestured toward the uneven, messy spaces where the food had been taken out into the sitting room or office.

Gethin hoisted himself up next to Jonathan and helped himself to a hit from the joint. Jonathan let him, and turned his attention to Margaret. “Margaret, can I get you anything? Something to eat, another drink?”

“I don’t want to put you out….” Margaret started, to which Jonathan made a rude noise. “Well, all right. You wouldn’t by any chance be able to make a daiquiri, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, I happen to have both strawberries and rum. You, my dear, are in luck.” He winked at her.

The conversation paused while Jonathan blended the drink, as it was too loud to hear over the noise from charades and the blender. Once he poured it into a martini glass and Margaret had ooh-ed and ahh-ed over it a bit, he said, “Well, we’ve covered me, then. What’s new with you?”

“Eh,” said Dai while Margaret sipped the daiquiri. “Lot of chaos in the union right now while we sort out legal disputes.”

Jonathan seemed to recall that there had been a lot of those lately. Only this morning a couple of kids had been sentenced for killing someone during the strike. “That sounds unpleasant.”

Dai nodded, twisting his mouth into an ironic sort of frown. “It worries me, to tell you the truth. With everything else happening—housing cuts, the electricians’ strike, and now this teacher lockout business, it just feels like we’re fighting on too many fronts.” He shot a quick glance at his wife. “But I’m not talking politics,” he said to her.

She gave him a sad smile. To Jonathan and Gethin, she said, “We had been trying to start a family. But I don’t think we can handle the disappointment right now, on top of it all.”

“Christ,” said Jonathan, stricken. “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, don’t be,” said Margaret. “I’m not complaining. We’ve got plenty to keep us busy, and planning this trip down to London’s been a joy.”

Dai nodded. “Besides, more than one way to start a family.”

Jonathan exchanged a look with Gethin. “That’s true,” Gethin said, and Jonathan nodded. God knew that Gethin, and LGSM, and the Gay Libbers, and the miners, were all more family to Jonathan than his blood relations were, and had been for a long time.

“I think we’re rather experts in making our own families,” he said.

“I suppose that’s true,” Dai acknowledged. “And a fine job you’ve done of it.” He looked around, at the people in the other room still playing charades, at the refrigerator of Christmas cards, at the pictures of friends and former lovers and events hosted at the bookstore that Jonathan and Gethin had hung on the back wall over the years. “You know,” he said slowly, “I think the only good I’ve ever seen in this world has come out of people deciding that they’re going to care about each other and act on it. Even when it seems hopeless, or like they won’t get anything out of it. Sometimes it feels like that isn’t enough, that caring…but I think it is.”

“I’ll toast to that,” said Jonathan, raising his joint in salute.

Margaret lifted her glass with a smile. “Here’s to caring about each other.”

“Here’s to family,” Gethin echoed solemnly. “We’ll make it be enough.”

* * *

Morning found everyone a little worse for wear, hung-over or stiff or, in Margaret and Hefina’s case, cold because, apparently, they’d been engaged in an unconscious battle for the blankets the night before. Fortunately, Jonathan was an old hand at post-party protocol, and before long, coffee and sausages and fried tomatoes had all and sundry perked up.

Cliff had stayed the night at Poetry Daniel’s, so their date must have gone well; he was supposed to call at noon to tell Hefina, Dai, and Margaret when to pick him up, so in the meantime, everyone helped Jonathan and Gethin clean the flat and go through new shipments of books downstairs that had been put aside until after Christmas.

“There’s really no need,” Gethin tried to demur, but Mark was having none of it.

“There _is_ a need,” he said. “Gay’s the Word is part of our community, it’s LGSM’s home, and so it’s our _duty_ to support it.”

“Besides,” put in Jeff, flipping idly through a copy of _The Joy of Gay Sex_ , “it’s very interesting.”

“Oh, never tell me you don’t have that one, my love,” Hefina chortled.

“Not like this!” He walked over to show her. “Look, it’s annotated! There’s even little drawings in the margins.” They paused to contemplate one.

“That doesn’t look physically possible,” Jeff remarked.

Hefina thought about it. “Well, they’re certainly flexible, and no mistake.”

“That one must be from the used stock Giovanni’s Room told me they would send,” said Gethin. “Put the used ones over here, I have to compare list prices.”

“Oh!” Margaret exclaimed. Jonathan turned to look. She was holding up a book with an expression of pleasure. “This is that book you were telling me about, Jonathan, the one by E. M. Forster.”

“ _Maurice_? It’s a classic.”

Gethin looked up from his inventory lists. “You can have it if you like.”

“I couldn’t,” said Margaret, though she looked tempted.

“We’ve got other copies,” Gethin said with a shrug. “If you like it, let me know. We’ve always got Forster novels coming in and out, I can send you whatever one you want.”

“Well.” She held the book with two hands for a moment, smiled, then set it on the table behind her. “If you insist.”

It was on the tip of Jonathan’s tongue to suggest _A Room with a View_ next, since she’d liked the film so much and since it was a happier place to start than some of Forster’s other novels, but before he could, the phone rang.

“Cliff!” said Bromley and Steph simultaneously, and they raced each other upstairs to the phone. It sounded like Steph had won; Jonathan could hear her saying “Hello, Jonathan and Gethin’s phone” from the front room.

Bromley raced down the stairs a minute later. “It’s Siân,” he exclaimed. “She’s called to wish us happy Christmas!”

The phone was passed a few times, from Steph to Bromley to Hefina to Mark to Dai, before Dai told Jonathan, “She wants to speak to you and Gethin.”

It was a bit, Jonathan thought humorously, like waiting with his brother and sister to hear from his grandparents when he was a boy. He picked the phone from the table where Dai had left it, leaned back so that Gethin could get in close enough to hear, and said, “Happy Christmas! We missed you down here.”

“Happy Christmas to you as well,” she said cheerfully. “Martin and I would have loved to come, but with the kids’ school plays and all, and Martin’s parents visiting for the holiday, we couldn’t leave.”

“Say hello to Martin and the children for us,” said Gethin.

“I will, of course I will. And how are you?”

“Fantastic,” said Jonathan. “The hangover’s almost worn off, the party came off without a single dramatic fight, and Gethin’s got a whole shipment of books to process, so it’s a bit like opening presents down here. And yourself?”

There was silence on the end of the phone for a long moment, long enough that Jonathan worried the connection had been lost. “Siân?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m still here. It’s only I have a bit of news.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I. Well. Martin and I have been talking, and we’ve come to a decision. Come the summer, we’re moving to Swansea, and I’m going to start at the university there.” The nervous pride in her voice was audible over the crackling line. “I wanted to let you know.”

It took a moment for Jonathan to process her words. “Oh, _Siân_ , that’s fantastic. You’ll be marvelous, simply marvelous.”

“Congratulations,” said Gethin sincerely. “What will you study, do you think?”

“I’m not one _hundred_ percent sure, but I think…maybe Welsh. I think…somebody’s got to protect these communities, don’t they? And maybe it’s silly to do it by studying a language, but it’s a place to start, isn’t it?”

“It’s not silly at all,” said Gethin. “In fact—Jonathan, could you hold the phone a minute?”

Jonathan, who thought he knew exactly what Gethin was thinking, took the phone as Gethin dashed back into the bedroom. To Siân, he said, “What he means to say is, language and literature is the very _lifeblood_ of a community. There’s a reason he’s dedicated his life to this bookstore, after all. I think studying Welsh is an _excellent_ idea.”

“Well, thank you,” said Siân. “I’d like to think that if you thought I was doing wrong, wasting my time and all, you’d tell me.”

“I would, and you’re not,” Jonathan assured her.

Gethin dashed back in, carrying a book. Jonathan didn’t know what _Tro’r Haul Arno_ meant, but doubtless Siân would. “Sorry to run out like that,” he said. “I was only grabbing something for you. A Christmas present, since you couldn’t make the party.” To Jonathan, he mouthed, _Write something in the book._

Jonathan flipped the book open to the flyleaf while Gethin talked with Siân. At the top, Gethin had written something in Welsh; at the bottom, he’d signed ‘Gethin a Jonathan.’ No prizes for guessing what that meant. Jonathan grabbed a pen from the table. After thinking for a moment, he wrote, _To Siân, Christmas 1985. You’ll show them all in Swansea, and you’ll always have friends in London._ Christ, he was proud of her. A force of nature, that woman, ready to conquer whatever the world threw at her.

After saying their goodbyes and handing the phone off to Margaret, they went back downstairs.

“I suppose Siân told you her news?” said Dai with a grin.

“She did,” Gethin answered. “Here, give her this, will you?”

Dai blinked at the book being thrust at him. “There’s gay books in Welsh?”

“No. Well, I suppose there might be, I’ll keep an eye out. But this isn’t for the shop, this is just mine. It’s Menna Elfyn, I think Siân will like her.”

“I’m sure she will,” said Dai, nodding slowly. He ran a finger over the title of the book. “I’m sure she will.”

* * *

Cliff drifted in without calling a little after eleven, and he’d scarcely made it through the door before being surrounded by a crowd.

“Cliff!” Hefina exclaimed after Cliff had escaped from the embraces of half a dozen eager young twenty-somethings. “We thought you’d call! Surely you didn’t come all the way from Daniel’s alone?”

“And why not?” asked Cliff archly. He looked very dapper in his snow-speckled wool overcoat and a brimmed hat Jonathan didn’t think he’d ever seen Cliff wear, and had a kind of spring in his step and a glint in his eye that made him look a decade younger. “I took the Underground. Very efficient, it is.”

“I’m glad _you_ think so,” said Steph. “But enough of that, how was your _date_?”

“My date?” Cliff looked around at all the people gathered around him, and an expression crossed his face that Jonathan would have sworn was stage fright. “Fine.”

Everyone groaned. “That’s it?” Mark demanded. “Fine?”

Cliff shrugged, quirking an eyebrow at them.

Jeff rolled his eyes at this. “Come on, Cliff. We’ve been dying of curiosity ever since Gethin and Jonathan told us you were coming up for Christmas. We don’t need the gory details, but surely you can tell us _something._ ”

“Hrmph.” Cliff cleared his throat. “Well. I can tell you this, I suppose.”

They all leaned in to listen.

“You think you know yourself. You think you know what you can live with and what you can live without. But there are some things you can’t ever know until you experience them. The sort of things that make you realize you’ve never really seen the world before. You didn’t know what you were saying no to. And that was what it was like, getting to sit with Daniel, and talk with him, and hold his hand.” He nodded slowly. “Yes. I’m glad I went.”

“That’s lovely, that,” said Margaret. She looked as enchanted as Jeff, who had stars in his eyes.

“Sounds like it went well,” said Mike more practically. “You think you’ll come up and see him again?”

Cliff nodded again. “We’ll want to wait for the weather to be a bit better. But yes, I will.” To Hefina, he said, “And Daniel might come to Onllwyn.”

Not for the first time, Jonathan thought that Cliff was as brave in his own way as anyone he’d ever known. He only hoped the town embraced Cliff and Daniel the way it had eventually embraced a bunch of loud London activists. And if the way Hefina was squaring her shoulders was any indication, it would, if it knew what was good for it. “He’d be welcome,” Hefina said firmly. “Any man who makes you so happy is a friend of mine.”

Jonathan had a sneaking suspicion they’d all be seeing a lot more of Poetry Daniel in the near future. There were worse fates, he supposed.

Over by the desk, Mark was whispering something furiously at Bromley, who looked up. “Right. Now that Cliff’s here, would you mind if we took a group picture?”

“Oh, a picture, now?” asked Hefina. “After all this cleaning and unpacking boxes and what have you, we’re hardly looking our best.”

“You’re joking!” Mark said. “As if you’ve ever looked less than lovely. This wouldn’t be a formal picture, anyway, just a memento.”

It took a bit of wrangling, but they finally managed a picture that suited Bromley’s standards. He didn’t have his usual camera, which was quite nice—instead he was using a Polaroid, which meant he could nitpick the photos as soon as they came out of the camera. It was only Jonathan’s natural talent as a ham that kept the rest from getting impatient, and he didn’t think he was flattering himself to say so.

“Do you think you’ll have enough to remember our faces by?” he finally asked.

Bromley smiled at the photo he was holding. “Yes, definitely. This is a good one.”

Mark and Mike broke away from the cluster and dug something out from Mike’s rucksack. It looked like a thick book.

“Right then,” said Mark. “Gather ‘round.”

Wondering what on earth Mark had planned now, Jonathan shot a glance around the room for hints. The Welsh contingent looked as curious as Jonathan was; the younger members of LGSM, though, were smiling in anticipation. Jonathan guessed it couldn’t be an idea for a new political cause—he didn’t think Steph would have the patience for it this early the day after a party.

“I want to thank our hosts,” said Mark. “Not just for letting us crash in their backroom after all that Brains Brewery beer, though that certainly was appreciated.”

“Especially with the weather as shite as it was,” Mike put in, and Mark nodded.

“The point is, we also want to thank you for making this store a home for us. Not just for _us_ , but for LGSM proper, for every gay rights group or queer reading group or fundraiser or event that needs it. I don’t think I always realized how important that is, to know you’ve got a place you’re welcome, but I do now.” Mike and Mark’s eyes met briefly before Mark turned his head to look at Jonathan and Gethin. “It’s not much,” he said, “but we thought we’d put a bit of a gift together. It’s from all of us.” He nodded at Mike, who handed Gethin the book. Jonathan stepped closer to him to look.

It was a photo album, filled with pictures. Some of them, unsurprisingly, were photos from LGSM meetings, from the Welfare Hall in Onllwyn, or from the Pits and Perverts concert. But there were also pictures from some of Jonathan’s performances, from readings and book signings at Gay’s the Word, from parties they’d hosted over the years, from Gay Liberation Front events and protests over a decade old now. And then on the last pages, polaroids from the party—the _duck à la Jonathan_ , the table toasting Reggie and Ray, action shots of the dancing and charades and, of course, the group shot with Cliff.

For once, Jonathan found he was speechless. It was Gethin who looked up and asked, his eyes full of feeling, “Where’d you get all these?”

Bromley smiled and waved his camera. “I am LGSM’s official photographer, after all.”

“We asked around,” Mark added. “You know the gay scene, it’s a small world, and you two have been around long enough and done enough in the community that loads of people had photos.” He smiled at Jonathan, but his eyes were serious. “It’s important to remember these things.”

Jonathan nodded. “It is.”

“Here’s to our hosts, Jonathan and Gethin and Gay’s the Word,” said Mark, raising his voice again. “Happy Christmas and all that, and let’s make 1986 better than 1985.”

“Hear hear,” the rest of the room echoed.

Jonathan drew Mark into a quick, hard hug, unable to think of any faster way to express his feelings that didn’t involve actually bursting into tears. He knew he had a reputation for being dramatic, and a well-earned one at that, but one had to draw the line somewhere.

Pulling away, he looked around at the room, at this random assortment of people who had somehow become inexplicably dear to him, and tried to commit the moment to memory. No photo would capture how he felt right now, but hopefully his heart would.

* * *

Hours later, when everyone had gone, and it was only Gethin and Jonathan left in the bookstore, Gethin leaned his head against Jonathan’s shoulder and traced a careful hand across a page of photos. “I think that party went rather well, don’t you?” he asked, with characteristic understatement.

Jonathan kissed his hair. “Favourite party yet,” he said. “Let’s do a soufflé next year.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story brought to you by Wikipedia, Google Maps, and "Under Pressure" by Queen and David Bowie. I hope any historical or cultural inaccuracies can be chalked up to the fact that this is based on a fictionalized version of real events and people rather than the events and people themselves.


End file.
